The trappings of Tom’s profession lay scattered about: books, letters, a stethoscope, soiled clothes. From the disarray, Emma judged that Tom had little time for himself—let alone for anyone else, including her. She resolved to make the best of their reunion and, as difficult as it might be, she would broach the subject of their relationship. She undressed, snuggled under the down comforter, and watched as the fire, at first robust, faded as the night dragged her into sleep.
* * *
Wind thumped against the cottage door.
Emma awoke with a start, with no recollection of her whereabouts.
Her husband lay with his back to her, the comforter pulled up to his waist, the upper half of his body covered by an undershirt. Emma moved her arm to touch him, but then reconsidered, and let her hand drop in front of her abdomen. Their talk would have to wait. She muttered a few words of intercession and pushed deeper into her pillow.
Tom quivered in his sleep as rain slashed against the window. The tempest shook the thin panes, keeping her awake and wondering how long the downpour would last. She threw off the comforter, the heat from the fireplace warming her legs. Tom had stoked the fire before going to bed.
He groaned and rolled onto his back. The small clock on the kitchen table struck two, the chimes reverberating in her head.
She rose on her elbow and studied her husband’s expression. His face was pale—the skin wan in the mercurial, flashing light, so unlike the healthy New England complexion forged by summer sun and frigid winter winds. His hair, unkempt since his time away from Boston, had thinned, showing streaks of gray, not evident before, at the temples. The biggest change, however, was in his eyes. Even the sleep-filled lids were purple and waxen, as if life had been drained from them.
Her eyes wandered down his form, finding it hard not to be drawn back to his face. She turned away, trying not to awaken him, placing her feet like cat paws on the floor.
Tom grunted and rolled onto his stomach.
She grabbed a coverlet from the bed, wandered to the table, sipped a bit of leftover wine, and gazed out the small window. Down the lane, the dark oak limbs shook in the rain. In the small garden in front of the cottage, drenched daisies bent their heads toward the earth. She found herself absorbed in thought and wished she could write in her diary.
Sleep comes hard for him. He’s exhausted. Sneaking in and stoking the fire without waking me! The war is killing him. It makes no difference to me if we make love. It’s far more important that we’re alive and well, with a chance to get things settled.... Why can’t I be honest about why I came to France? To save my marriage or escape from passion? To work as a sculptress . . . or to forget the one secret I’ve never been able to tell my husband? I hardly know myself why I came. He’s much nobler than I—so determined when he made the decision. He wanted—no, needed—to aid the war effort and the French doctors. He talked incessantly about the need for qualified surgeons at the Front. I’m not some noble artist come to save the world or the lives of these disfigured men. I thought this work would help me become a better sculptress. Maybe, with time, I’ll improve. It seems so deceitful to practice on men for the sake of my art. It’s despicable, really . . . but I shouldn’t think that. This is how the mind works at two in the morning.
Lightning flashed outside the window and a low growl rumbled within the walled city.
Thunder. The sound is too long and hollow to be an exploding shell.
The rain pushed hard against the window, the water sheeting against the panes. Emma fidgeted in the small wooden chair at the table and poured more wine.
If I smoked, I’d have a cigarette. What a day of disasters—the rain, the drive, even supper with John and Virginie was awkward. I wanted to be alone with Tom and there they were, right beside me, John indulging himself with his stories of shattered faces and the marvels of his reconstructions, and Virginie needling him at every turn. I swear they’ll drive me crazy before he leaves France. John blanched when I displayed a less than intense interest in my new studio—my distractions getting the better of me. “Attention must be paid, Mrs. Swan,” he kept repeating, as if I couldn’t appreciate the magnitude of the work. Supper isn’t the time for a discourse on facial reconstruction and the techniques of metal mask-making. Later, Sir Jonathan, when my head is not so full, the studio will have my full attention.
And the final tragedy—oh, I call it a tragedy when it really isn’t. How can a man make love to you when he’s emotionally and physically exhausted? But you would suppose after five months the body would be eager, ready for the demands of the libido. But sex seems so unimportant here with a war raging and our own emotions overpowering any sexual need. His body is so familiar to me and yet so strange now—as alien and distant as my faces. His chest, his arms, his stomach, all thinner than before, but the whole of him slightly off kilter; and the feeling, the emotion upon our meeting, vacant as night. Any pent-up passion in me escaped like a wisp of air—if it was ever there at all. And, I admit, I was relieved to let it flow away. The pressure is so much less now that he’s asleep. I wonder what would have occurred if Linton had been lying next to me instead of Tom?
Lightning illuminated a stack of mail on the table. She reached for it.
He’s kept my letters.
She flipped through the brown envelopes, realizing there were more in the pile than she had written: letters from Boston doctors, correspondence from French surgeons in the American Expeditionary Force, notes from John.
She replaced the envelopes where she found them, sipped a bit more wine, and stared out the rain-soaked window. As she watched the torrent, a sudden thought chilled her and sent a shiver down her spine. What if someone from Boston has written to him? What if Tom knows about Linton?
CHAPTER 5
PARIS AND THE FRONT
Late October 1917
“I’m happy he’s gone,” Virginie said, her voice rising with each word. “Il est odieux. Imagine, asking me to work in England. Jamais! I hate him. English bully.”
“Don’t work yourself up so,” Emma said. She closed the anatomy book she had been studying. “He’s been gone for weeks. I only meant I wish John was around sometimes—after all, he’s the one who established this technique for the Royal Army Medical Corps. And, despite what you might think, I don’t believe he hated you. In fact, I think he admired you for standing up to him. He could never crack you. Consider it a compliment that he chose you as an assistant.”
“He upset me and wore me out,” Virginie said. “But you are correct—it is no matter now.”
“I know.” The sun passing behind the clouds cast fleeting shadows across the parquet floor. “We’ve created the Studio for Facial Masks, and we should be proud of it. I couldn’t have done it without you and Madame Clement. On Monday, when we open, I suppose we’ll have a line of men waiting for us, if Sir Jonathan’s prediction is correct.”
Emma walked to the window and placed her hands on the sill where the warm fall light dissolved the chill on her arms. When she took stock of all they had created, she was satisfied with their work. The studio was as pleasant as she and her assistants could make it. The process had been long and difficult, especially with John and Virginie butting heads at nearly every turn. But Emma recognized their worth as a team: John, as a pedantic teacher; the intelligence and wit of Virginie; and the steady hand of Madame Clement, the housekeeper, who kept them comfortably fed and on schedule.
For a small salary, provided by the Red Cross and bolstered by a few francs from Tom, Virginie and Madame Clement had accepted Emma’s invitation to remain at the studio. Virginie was thrilled to be rid of John, who had recruited her and Madame Clement in anticipation of Emma’s arrival. Both had suffered tedious demands and rigorous training under him, but his “tyranny” had made the transition easier for Emma. Virginie alone had constructed more than twenty facial masks under John’s tutelage.
Emma had worked with the Red Cross to secure the two upper floors of a building in
the Latin Quarter near the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. From the studio’s arched stone entrance on the rue Monge, a passageway led to a small courtyard and a rear wooden staircase. The courtyard walls were covered with ivy and its square filled with marble and bronze statues purchased by Emma at a flea market.
Madame Clement brought meals daily from her home and shopped for fresh flowers every few days. When the housekeeper warmed her dishes on the small stove, the smells of her delicious cooking filled the studio. She made coq au vin when she could procure a chicken; prepared potatoes in all forms; baked small cakes or cookies, which sometimes graced the table, despite shortages of sugar and flour. The studio became a bastion against the war with its warm light, flowers, decorative posters, French and American flags, homemade dishes, and bottles of wine.
Madame Clement lived nearby in the Quarter, while Emma and Virginie occupied one of two small rooms on the floor above the studio. The garret, with its angled window that looked out across the jumbled Paris skyline, contained a battered oak desk, a chair, two iron bedsteads, and was warmed by an open-hearth fireplace. The space seemed small, even by Boston standards, but Emma knew it would be cozy and warm during the gray winter days to come.
The last of the staff yet to join them before the opening was a tall, fez-wearing Moroccan named Hassan, an olive-skinned man with profuse black hair. He had worked with Virginie at a hospital and inquired about a job with the studio. Emma worked out a small stipend for Hassan after his interview, as well as living quarters in the garret, providing the room across the hall in exchange for his services. Hassan could speak or read little English, but through his intuition and intelligence could interpret a look or a gesture as if someone had spoken to him. He was strong enough to haul supplies despite a slight limp from a leg injury suffered in the war. During their introduction, Emma found he handled the clay-modeling brushes and scrapers, used in creating the masks, with ample dexterity.
Late in the afternoon, after a day of cleaning and organizing in the studio, a repeated loud knock on the door disturbed Emma’s brief chance to relax. Soon, Madame Clement, attired in one of the simple housedresses she favored, appeared with a young man in tow. Emma recognized his thin form, the light-brown hair, and distinctively colored amber eyes from a previous meeting. He was a courier from the hospital in Toul who had come with Tom in September to pick up medical supplies in Paris. The courier and her husband had visited briefly at rue de Paul before driving back to the hospital.
Today, Emma sensed something was wrong. The courier lowered his head and whispered to Madame Clement. The housekeeper frowned and then nodded as the courier spoke. The large studio room, one wall hung with the plaster masks of men with missing noses, twisted mouths, and sightless eyes, took on an ominous feel. The masks were used as guides to fill in the flesh lost by injury.
Virginie appeared at the door and asked, “Is everything all right?”
Emma concerned by the courier’s tone, countered, “I think the question is, ‘What is wrong?’”
“Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” Virginie asked Madame Clement.
The housekeeper bent toward the nurse and, like the courier, whispered.
“What is going on? Has something happened to Tom?” Emma walked uncertainly toward them, swaying a bit on her feet.
“A moment, Madame,” Virginie said to Emma, and cut off Madame Clement from her conversation with the courier and concentrated her attention on the young man. After a brief discussion, the nurse said, “Your husband wishes to speak to you.”
“He’s here?”
“No, in Toul.”
“Is he safe?”
“Yes, but he has an important matter to discuss with you.”
“The courier has no idea what this is about?” Emma asked impatiently, clasping her hands in front of her.
The courier and Virginie carried on another conversation.
“He has no idea, but Monsieur Swan apparently is worried—more concerned than the courier has ever seen him.”
“I can’t stand this,” Emma said. “Please have Madame Clement telephone Tom at the hospital. There’s no phone at the cottage. It’s too late to travel today. Virginie, ask the courier if he wouldn’t mind staying the night. We can get an early start in the morning.”
Virginie spoke to the courier and then to the housekeeper, who nodded and left the room. The courier took off his hat and bowed slightly to Emma.
“He can stay in Hassan’s room since he hasn’t arrived yet.” She smoothed her dress and stared at the young man, who looked back with equal intent. “I’ll make it up.” Emma hurried up the stairs, opened the Moroccan’s room, and stood trembling by the side of the bed, tears blurring her vision. She blinked them away, fluffed the white pillow, and pulled down the checked blanket to make sure the sheets were fresh. She jabbed the fireplace poker into the hearth and swept some fallen ash into a pail.
Virginie appeared at the door. “Madame Clement is preparing supper for the three of us. She called the hospital. Monsieur Swan is not there. . . .” The nurse blinked, as if searching for the proper words.
“Yes?”
“Your husband is at the Front.”
Emma steadied herself against the bed and then sat, bewildered by the news.
* * *
At times, caught up in Parisian life, Emma constructed romantic fantasies about her husband despite the awkwardness between them. They could make Paris their home after the war ended, she often thought. It would be their chance to begin again, to return to the days when they appreciated each other, but those thoughts had popped like bubbles in the wind as the reality of the war sunk in.
Emma slept little during the night, imagining Tom plagued by every possible war-related disaster. After a breakfast of oatmeal and pear slices, Emma and the courier climbed into the ambulance. On the chilly street, the first spreading rays of dawn streaked the eastern sky. As they drove away from Paris, the day turned mild with the rising sun. Near noon, they followed a convoy of French army trucks spewing gray exhaust and dust for an hour, until the drivers stopped under a row of spindly birches, the young soldiers spilling out into a field to stretch their legs and eat. Emma and the courier, who spoke to each other in fractured English phrases, agreed they could do without lunch in order to hasten the journey.
They arrived in Toul about seven in the evening.
At the hospital, Emma found a French doctor who spoke English and asked him about Tom. He was a thin, pleasant man by the name of Claude, who, like Tom, suffered from overwork and too little sleep. Thick lines creased his face, but the many wrinkles at his temples led Emma to believe that, even as a doctor, he was able to laugh in this difficult time.
“He was called to the Front because two surgeons are ill with dysentery,” Claude said. “Doctors are scarce. He offered to go.”
Emma thanked him and turned to walk away.
“Where are you going, Madame?” Claude asked.
“To the Front,” she said matter-of-factly.
Claude chuckled and reached for a cigarette in his jacket pocket. “Come with me. I need to smoke.” He led Emma down the stairs to the large sitting room, where he plopped into a chair and lit his cigarette. “The Front is thirty-five kilometers away, give or take a few. It is dark. You are a woman.”
“A woman? What does my sex have to do with seeing my husband? The courier told me Tom was desperate to see me.”
The doctor smiled and pointed the fiery end of his smoke at Emma. “Please understand, Madame Swan, this is not my doing. Both the French and American armies have turned your sex away from the Front—even women who desperately want to fight. They will not allow you through at this hour or perhaps any other hour.”
“Then I will go as a man.”
Claude snickered. “C’est la chose la plus insensée que je n’ai jamais entendu.”
“Did you say I was insane?”
“Oh, pardon, Madame. Not you—the idea.”
His sarcastic
smile transformed into a knowing look. “Peut-être. . . Do you have clothes?”
“Those on my back and a change in my case, but I can make do with Tom’s clothes at the cottage.”
Claude brushed a few fallen ashes from his pant leg. “No, you need a uniform. I have no American uniforms—only French—from the dead soldiers.”
Emma started, but shook off her distaste. “That will do. Do you have one in my size?”
“No matter. Most of them did not fit the man who died in them. The sentries will not know the difference.”
Claude stubbed out his cigarette on the floor and then led Emma to a small room underneath the staircase. Piles of army pants, shirts, boots, leggings, and helmets lay stacked on wooden shelves. “Here is the dressing room of the dead,” Claude said with a disquieting smile. “Most widows want their husbands to be buried in a suit, not a uniform. Some we return to the army for other soldiers to wear. Most we burn because they cannot be worn.”
Emma listened halfheartedly to Claude’s comments while she poked through the jumble of clothes. Most were in decent condition, but a few were partially shredded or spotted with the blackish stains of dried blood.
“Here you can create your fashion,” Claude said.
As she sorted through the dead men’s clothes with the intention of constructing this disguise, the macabre thought of All Hallows’ Eve popped into her head. It’s like dressing for some kind of grotesque party. It is insane! She dismissed it from her mind. “After I’m dressed, will the courier take me to the Front?”
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